Womanly
by Ebyru
Summary: They all magically turn into girls after a game of drunken strip poker.


Title: (Wo) Manly

Table 15 – Inspired by games – game #5; Strip Poker

Summary: They all magically turn into girls after a game of drunken strip poker.

Dean is content but confused when he wakes up to firm breasts in his palms. He had promised Sam he wouldn't bring a woman back to the motel with him for the night. The smile eventually fades when he realizes his hands are on his own chest. These are his _own_ perky breast, but he doesn't remember getting plastic surgery to tack them on.

Dean grunts, wondering if he made some ridiculously off comment last night (when he was drunk) along the lines of _I wish I knew what being a woman was like_.

Witches.

It has to be a witch who overheard him or was passing by or was just holding a grudge that decided to curse him with these springy, hot tits. He probably shouldn't be turned on by his own body.

Dean is afraid to look down at the rest, but his gaze doesn't get very far anyhow. There's a silhouette in a crisp, white shirt hunched over at the end of his bed. And from the looks of it, it's most likely a woman.

Okay, so _maybe_ Dean did still break his promise to Sam. And maybe Sam was angry and hired a witch to cast this bullshit spell on him to teach him a lesson. The confrontation will have to wait until after he explains to this poor girl that he was, _in fact_, a man when he bedded her, and that she's not crazy. Or maybe it's easier to just say he is _Dean's sister_.

"Um," Dean clears his throat. It's so freakin' high, it's embarrassing. "Miss—"

"What is it, Dean?" She answers flatly.

Even though it sounds like a Disney princess just answered him, Dean could decipher whose tone that is from a mile away with earplugs shoved in.

"Cas?" Dean sits up, "She got you too?"

How could any witch be powerful enough to mess with an angel's meat-suit? It's starting to freak Dean out.

"I'm not sure of whom you're referring to, but indeed, the curse has affected my vessel as well." _God_ is Castiel's voice ever high as a girl.

"When did you get here?" Dean asks, curling his fingers around the blanket to hide his—_lady lumps_.

"I have been here since last night," Castiel finally turns to look at Dean. It nearly knocks the wind out of Dean how beautiful he is. And, _damn_, that shirt does nothing to hide the supple, round shape of his breasts. Castiel continues, frowning at where Dean's eyes are, "Don't you remember?"

Well that explains…_nothing_.

"I don't remember anything except drinking." Dean blinks, noticing Castiel's gaze tracing Dean's shape in turn.

Castiel clears his throat, eyes darting back up to Dean's face, "You called me down when you were inebriated. You mentioned something about being dissuaded from drinking alongside a woman. I believe you were speaking of Sam."

"So Sam did this?" Dean says, still taken by how gorgeous, and yet, _still_ Castiel-like the angel looks with his pouty pink lips, and clear blue eyes and that longer messy bob of dark hair.

"No," Castiel says, serious. "And then I arrived, and you ignored Sam's warnings while you removed a few layers of my clothing to be on equal footing for your pleasantries. Something called strip poker."

"Oh man, I'm sorry. I hope I didn't do anything we—"

"Sam helped you," Castiel cuts in. "And I won your game. You and Sam were unclothed, and too intoxicated to mind my presence it seemed."

"Wait. Where is this going?" Dean narrows his eyes, "Are you making this up? Sammy never drinks that much, Cas."

"When do I lie, Dean?" Castiel snaps, crossing his arms. His breasts don't really fit beneath his arms, and they end up being pushed above. Dean is _not_ drooling, in no way, shape or form. Castiel clears his throat, uncrossing his arms. "It was your idea for the 'loser' of each round to have a glass of rum along with removing an item of clothing."

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, surprised by the softness of the skin there. It's like his body has been cleansed, moisturized and given back to him with a few tweaks. "I still don't see what all this has to do—"

"Sam was attempting to convince you he was not of the female order and…" Castiel wets his lips nervously.

"And what?" Dean snaps. There's no way Castiel's getting turned on by this, too. Is he?

"He kissed me," Castiel looks away.

"He…_okay_," Dean says so calmly it even startles himself. He's not going to picture it, not going to picture it, not going to—

Okay, fuck it, he did. This whole situation is already messed up, why not add some mental damage while they're at it?

"Then you chided that Sam kissed like a member of the opposite sex. So he began taking the rest of my clothes off, and performed—"

"Okay!" Dean puts a hand up, shaking his head. He is not going to survive the rest of that story. "I think I got it. But this still doesn't explain anything."

"You said he was the 'worst woman', that he could not be any 'girlier' if he tried," Castiel frowns. Dean is too busy laughing at the angelic air-quotes to notice. "You also said he had spread his illness onto me. Finally, you challenged us, explaining how you would be a 'kickass' woman like Angelina Jolie."

Right now, Castiel looks a lot more like her if Dean is being honest. He could settle for being the Pamela Anderson of their group. Angelina and Pamela making out on a motel room bed…

Dean grumbles. He needs to stop tormenting himself with these (awesome) unnecessary thoughts.

"So, in other words, it's my fault?" Dean squints.

"I believe, yes," Castiel says matter-of-factly, without any such thing as remorse.

"What was with the long drawn out way of saying this—" Dean sighs. "Anyway, where's Sammy?"

"In the washroom," Castiel replies quickly.

Sam steps out then, both arms crossed over his chest, his shirt riding up his narrow waist.

"I hate your big mouth, Dean," Sam complains.

"At least mine wasn't on Cas's—"

"You _told_ him?" Sam says indignantly, glaring at the angel trying desperately to hide his chest by leaning forward.

"He was with us during the _event_, Sam," Castiel scowls. It's not as intimidating while Castiel is hunched over with his voice is as high as the ceiling.

"Did you also tell Dean he fought me to swallow down—"

Dean stands, "I've heard enough!" That is way too much information for him to process when he can't even look at his own chest without getting excited. "I need some air."

Dean steps out of the motel room, inhaling the scent of damp grass, looking up at the dark clouds slowly moving outward. He smiles to himself; maybe this wouldn't be so bad. They could probably use Castiel to find some way out of this. Maybe it would just pass on its own, and they would have a newfound respect for the people from Venus.

Dean puts his hands on his hips proudly, pushing out his chest (accidentally) in the process. A man on a motorcycle blows kisses, then howls, finally saying 'Oh baby, I'd let you ride my bike any day'.

Dean isn't sure what the disgusting taste on his tongue is until his throat burns with it. _Yeah_, he just threw up in his mouth. Not the best thing to happen in the world. He can't exactly say it's the worst either.

Another man drives by, slowing down to scan over Dean in a very non-subtle manner. He rolls down his window, waving Dean over. _Keep dreaming, buddy_. When Dean waves a hand dismissively, the guy mutters 'bitch' loud enough for Dean to hear.

This is getting ridiculous. He's not even that far from the motel, his jacket is sort of covering his lack of a bra, and he's wearing pants. What's with all these gross, hairy, perverted, tactless men chasing him like they're in cat-heat? It could be part of the curse. That would make it harder to ignore.

When a teenager in a convertible—most likely his father's—nearly smashes into the back bumper of the car in front of him, Dean decides he needs to go back into the safety of the motel room.

Castiel is staring between his legs on the edge of the bed and Sam is staring so hard at his laptop's screensaver that Dean is almost afraid to ask what _that's_ all about. But then again, he really, really wants to know (and if it makes Sam uncomfortable in the process, then good). It could make Dean feel better about having been a piece of steak on display earlier.

"What's with Cas?" Dean says, still shocked by his own voice. "Did something else change while I was out?"

Sam sighs, dragging a hand down his face—his girly, pouty-lipped, runway model face—and still not speaking up. His eyes dart to Castiel, and Castiel's gaze snaps up to Dean's eyes (with great effort).

"I accidentally brushed my arm against Sam's breast," Castiel looks down, flushed, "and I felt something odd in my _undergarments_, so I assumed I had been aroused like with the pizza man."

"You're looking for a boner?" Dean chuckles out. "Girls don't have that kind of problem, man. Relax." Let them all pretend Castiel didn't just get a little wet because of Sam's boob—just for a second.

Sam folds his arms over his chest, barely covering it, and Castiel's watching him with his peripheral vision. Castiel's eyes snap down to his crotch again. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Okay, we need to find chick clothes," Dean says sterly. "I don't like looking like a Hooter's worker."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, "some clothes that fits or, you know, that _hides_ all this, would be good."

Sam's clothing is barely containing his curves right now, and sooner than later, Castiel is going to get turned on again and make everything in the room awkward and harder to deal with than it already is. It's bad enough Sam's height hardly changed, but his lips are fuller, his eyes more elongated, his nose slightly more delicate, his jaw softer, his frame slighter, his chest bigger, his hips curvier—

Okay, so maybe Dean is staring, too. But Sam is like a freaking amazon woman. It's making Dean wish he could at least remember all the drunken antics from last night so he could use them as leverage against Sam in the future.

Dean jerks his eyes away, and he catches Castiel staring directly at Sam's ass when Sam stands and bends over to grab a jacket. Then Castiel's eyes dart down to his pants, again.

Sam turns back just as Dean and Castiel fail at reining in their self-control for the tenth time in two minutes.

"Okay, we're going shopping _now_," Sam says in a clipped, uncomfortable way. "Close your mouths, please."

Seeing three women walk into a store with all of them being over five foot ten is not inconspicuous.

Everyone, from the lowly cashiers, to the manager, to the clients, to the security guards, is staring at them. And they decide to disperse to draw less attention to themselves, but it -evidently- worsens the matter. Men approach them in flocks, women either gawk or shoot daggers from their eyes at them, and children whisper to their parents that they want autographs.

One of the parents finally walks up to Dean and asks for his autograph—for their child, of course. And he signs it happily, making it as illegible as possible as to not disappoint the poor kid when they realize he's just a regular dude with a curse on his ass. Okay, when it's stringed together like that none of it is actually _regular_.

Castiel isn't used to the prying eyes, and doesn't think Heaven would approve of him having so much attention drawn to himself, so he clings to Sam and hides behind him when people get closer. Sam whispers to him 'No one knows, Cas. Don't worry', but it's ineffective, and Castiel insists on standing too near, his hands wrapped tight around Sam's slender waist.

Since Sam is otherwise occupied, Dean is the one left to pick out the clothes. And as much as Sam knows it's probably the worst idea they've had all day, he's too busy shooing sleazy men away from Castiel and patting him on the back to keep an eye on his older brother's fashion faux-pas.

Dean rushes to the cash, grabbing sunglasses on the way to hide behind, and flags Sam and Castiel down when he's paid and it's all packed away in plastic bags.

If there are cameras flashing, they all pretend they don't see them as they back out of the parking lot.

Sam, although not the best dresser in the world, knows with a sick, burning ache that what Dean has chosen will be the _worst clothes ever_.

Dean hands Sam and Castiel a pile of clothes, and keeps a small bag next to him as he flops down on his bed. He gestures for Sam to try on his stuff first.

Sam's first thought? Worst. Clothes. _Ever_.

The tacky leopard-print halter top does nothing but make Sam's breast more prominent, and the length of the cut-off jean shorts should be illegal in at least twelve states. He's afraid to bend over and end up with floss up his ass, where his shorts used to be. Then, if the outfit isn't bad enough, Dean had somehow felt compelled to buy them heels. HEELS. And clear heels at that. Real classy stuff.

Sam steps out of the bathroom, huffing and glaring at Dean. And Dean tilts his head in a very Castiel fashion, and barks out: "Why aren't you wearing the heels, Sammy?"

Very close to growling, Sam concedes in the end, and slips them on. If he's meant to experience all that a woman does for this curse to dissolve, then heels would probably play a big part of being a woman.

Dean nods when Sam stands up straight with them on, and he begins to walk towards the beds. His ankles shake and his knees buckle, Castiel automatically wanting to reach out and catch him, but Sam manages to save himself before face-planting. Sam spreads his arms out like he's trying to fly away, and takes a few more steps while Dean is stifling his laughter (poorly) behind a fist.

Sam makes it to the motel room door, and turns heading back to the bathroom. He needs to suffer through this a bit longer, probably. He lurches forward, almost falling again, and stands back up to take a few more unstable steps. But then he lands head first on Castiel—who is sitting at the edge of Sam's bed innocently—when he trips over his own feet.

Dean is obviously laughing hysterically at that epic fall.

Sam's butt is in the air, his head practically in Castiel's lap, and the angel's eyes have never been wider. Dean considers for a moment why this feels like déjavu, and then remembers seeing this position in a lesbian porno he watched last week.

Dean's suddenly looking down to make sure he doesn't have a boner, either. Blame the angel for making them all lose their minds.

Castiel helps Sam up into a sitting position next to him on the bed, and Dean sneaks away to try on his clothes next.

There's banging inside the bathroom, and Sam very nearly asks if Dean needs help, but decides against it when he remembers how _this is all Dean's fault_. Probably. Dean starts snickering inside the bathroom, and Castiel looks at Sam for an explanation, but Sam just shrugs a shoulder as they continue waiting for Dean to make his appearance.

And then they are both sucking in a breath.

Dean's wearing some skimpy silver dress and shaking his hips, flipping his hair to the side—like he's probably seen Jo do a few times—and walking across the room on his toes as though it's a stage.

Castiel blinks, says nothing, and hands Dean the heels. Sam pats Castiel on the back as a silent 'good job'. But the angel keeps his eyes on Dean as he bends over and slips the six inch heels on.

Surprisingly, or maybe not –considering the abundance of weirdness they've been through today—Dean can walk _perfectly_ in them.

Sam rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, "Maybe you should just stay a woman, Dean."

Dean snorts in response, "I would hate it. _Way_ too many old men throwing themselves at me. I don't know how chicks do it."

Castiel finds a bra in the pile Dean handed him, and assumes that it's probably his turn to change and show off. He starts trying it on without warning, without going to the bathroom, right next to Sam.

Dean and Sam both scream a flurry of things ranging from _what are you doing_ to _don't you know the meaning of privacy_ and _that's not where the strap goes_.

Castiel stops what he's doing, mostly because of the entanglement rather than the protests, and it's even worse because he has barely anything covering the top of him (or his nipples).

And Dean definitely has a boner or—what is it called? A lady boner? Except, when Dean looks down, he does have a boner. A boner pushing against the artificial silver fabric of his now not needed dress. His dick is back!

Sam looks over when Dean fist-pumps, surprised and kind of grossed out that Dean is so triumphant about having a hard-on. He stands in front of Dean to hide Castiel from the leering.

"Dude, that is _not right_. He's a virgin," Sam says, scolding Dean like a parent.

"He is a _she_ right now, Sammy," Dean says cheerfully. "And a damn hot female, if I do say so."

When Sam crosses his arms to show Dean that he will not stand for such behaviour, he realizes he switched back, too.

Two men over six feet tall in girl clothes are awkward as _fuck_, but still pale in comparison to an angel trapped in his bra, on a motel room bed, staring at them in silent confusion.

Sam can read the lewd thoughts inside Dean's head all over his face, and it would bother him—or at least more than it does right now—if he wasn't suddenly thinking the same lewd things. Or at least along the same lines. Dean has some kinks that Sam doesn't dare think about. Sam is almost tempted to ask what Dean is thinking, but he knows _exactly_ what that is when Dean's eyes go dark and he lunges toward the bed.

Castiel scrambles on the sheets, reaching for his coat, clearly not as ignorant to Dean's telling signs as he appears, but Dean is faster. He pins Castiel down, something weaker, less angelic about this female body, and Sam rushes in snapping the bra open and throwing it on the ground.

"How are your breast so big?" Dean says, almost contemplative.

"Dean, this is embarrassing," Castiel says, huffing out a breath.

Sam recognizes an emotion he's never seen in Castiel, "Dean, maybe we shouldn't do this." Castiel looks a bit frightened. Or could he simply be in denial?

"No, maybe you should turn back into a woman, Sammy," Dean retorts, "You belonged like that."

Sam rolls his eyes, and slaps Dean's ass for some reason. Maybe because he's hovering over Castiel like some predator and the whole situation is so odd already. Besides, Dean does it to Sam at all the wrong times, too. A little payback feels good.

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean says, turning his head to look behind him.

Sam shrugs a shoulder, "You asked for it." Why does Sam suddenly sound like Dean after behaving like him?

"No, I didn't," Dean grits out, clearly losing his previous arousal.

Castiel is smiling below him, feeling safer probably. The big bad wolf has found another prey to go after. And when Dean turns back, getting a glimpse of that easy, softened look, he just has to –

Dean bites Castiel's neck. It takes them all by surprise, but instead of the fear returning, Castiel is moaning. And Dean is wiggling his hips, purposely trying to irritate Sam who can't get a good look at what's happening, so Sam shoves Dean aside a bit and grinds down against Castiel.

This is going down a very dark road, is what Sam thinks, but he doesn't find himself minding so much.

Dean shoves Sam aside and kisses Castiel hard enough to bruise. It's like a pornographic competition, similar to the one from last night, except there's no excuse this time because _they're both sober_. When Dean stops kissing Castiel long enough for them to take in a lungful (or a hundred) of air, Castiel's back to the same old vessel he's always had.

Instead of it being a mood killer, which is what Castiel expects (hopes for with every ounce of his grace more like it, because drunken Winchesters are hard enough to keep up with), Dean and Sam are _even more_ turned on.

Dean growls out a '_that's how I like him'_ before he's shoving his tongue back down Castiel's throat. Sam busies himself by stripping whatever clothes Castiel has left on. Castiel gives up fighting, and lets his charges do what they want. What they want is usually what he wants, anyhow.

It's a dark, twisted road indeed, but at least they know how to use these parts.


End file.
